A boy and a man sat in a room of a stone house in the ancient City of
Mexico, capital in turn of Aztec, Spaniard and Mexican. They could see
through the narrow windows masses of low buildings and tile roofs, and
beyond, the swelling shape of great mountains, standing clear against
the blue sky. But they had looked upon them so often that the mind took
no note of the luminous spectacle. The cry of a water-seller or the
occasional jingle of a spur came from the street below, but these, too,
were familiar sounds, and they were no longer regarded.

The room contained but little furniture and the door was of heavy oak.
Its whole aspect indicated that it was a prison. The man was of middle
years, and his face showed a singular blend of kindness and firmness.
The pallor of imprisonment had replaced his usual color. The boy was
tall and strong and his cheeks were yet ruddy. His features bore some
resemblance to those of his older comrade.

"Ned," said the man at last, "it has been good of you to stay with me
here, but a prison is no place for a boy. You must secure a release and
go back to our people."

The boy smiled, and his face, in repose rather stern for one so young,
was illumined in a wonderful manner.

"I don't want to leave you, Uncle Steve," he said, "and if I did it's
not likely that I could. This house is strong, and it's a long way from
here to Texas."

"Perhaps I can induce them to let you go," said the man. "Why should